The Only One in the Universe
by Medusa Davenport
Summary: Across space, time, and even literary genres, he'll always love her.  A series of F!Hawke/Fenris oneshots, each set in a different genre universe  scifi, western, Victorian-era .
1. Space Age

So I wanted to mess with the genre-AU thing, but got too many ideas. Anyway, a series of F!Hawke/Fenris oneshots, each set in a different genre from the standard medieval fantasy of DA. All between 1000-2000 words.

First up is hard sci-fi; Kirkwall is a space station, the Deep Roads are uncharted space, and Tevinter is a society of genetic engineers on the far side of the region of the galaxy known as Thedas... Just before Act 3

**warnings:** truly obscene language, alcohol & tobacco use, implied drug use. Characters do not talk like medieval fantasy because they live about 3,000 years in the future and I don't predict a reversion to Ye Olde English happening in, well, ever.

* * *

><p>Hawke still hangs out in Lowtown bars after people start calling her 'Champion.' She walks halfway around the Kirkwall station to drink, probably going out of her way to avoid the moving walkways and lifts available in favor of service ladders and restricted hallways. He finds her leaning with hunched shoulders at the bar, watching the walls replay archived footage of that spectacular gun battle against the Qunari after they attempted a hostile takeover of the station three years ago today.<p>

Fenris slings a leg across the empty stool beside her and sits. He folds his hands together on top of the bar and waits for her to acknowledge him.

Her head slopes down as she turns to stare at him across an ashtray laden with cigarettes. "What do you want, Fenris?" she grumbles, and he realizes from her blurry eyes and the way she fumbles with the flint of her thumbband that she's drunk. Tanked.

"I want you to get your ass out of this bar," he answers in a calm voice, crossing his arms over the Kevlar body armor he wears on his chest. "You've been moping since you offed the Arishok." He jerks his head at the wall as the plasma display swirls and shifts to her latest public appearance this morning. "And now you're pissing off Commander Meredith. Are you trying to get us all vented out an airlock?"

She scowls at him just as her image scowls at Meredith on the wall. "Are you here to lecture me for being too open-minded? Shit, Fenris, you escaped Tevinter Genetics with a couple of interesting tricks, too." Smoke curls out of her mouth as she speaks.

He purses his lips and drums his fingers on the countertop, shoving away the old-fashioned touchscreen menu that appears at the contact. The force of his movement makes his GROM rocket launcher clatter against his shoulders. "You know that entire compartments of this station have been burned out by mages. Tevinter is _run_ by mages and-"

"I know!" she cuts him off by making a chopping motion through the air with her hand. "They did really fucked-up shit to you and now you're all PTSD'd out. But just because a few mages in the corner of the galaxy are sociopaths doesn't mean that all mages are the same." She grits her teeth and he knows she's thinking about her mother, ripped open and remade by one of those insane sociopath mages. After a harsh drag on the filter of her cig, her voice softens sadly. "You know what it's like to have powers you didn't ask for."

Gritting his teeth against his initial response, he sighs. "I'm not having this argument here." He presses his palm flat against the counter to summon the menu back up and eyes her through bleached-white bangs. "So either come with me, or I'm shoving stims down your throat."

Hawke snorts and finishes her drink. "Not the only thing you wanna shove down my throat," she mutters into the glass, her eyes dodging away from his.

"Not having this argument, either," he snaps, glaring at her. But his thumb is making tiny circles over the menu like the ones he drew on her skin the night they hooked up. No, more than just a hookup. He snatches his hand up from the bar and crosses his arms again, slouching back against the stool even though it wedges the GROM between his shoulders in an uncomfortable way. The menu fades from sight. "Move it, Hawke."

"Fuck off," she says, glaring at him.

None of the patrons interfere in the brief scuffle that ensues. Fenris moves suddenly, gripping her arms in his hands and giving her a rough shake. She tries to twist away as he shifts her into the crook of one arm, hooking his elbow around her back to pinch the opposite hand at her waist and using his weight and chest to control her thrashing. Hawke's forehead smacks his chin as he palms the menu in an effort to order the precious pill that will shut off the alcohol receptors in her brain and liver. He tastes blood and pins her against the chair with his hips, trying not to think about how it feels to shove his hips against hers again. Even if they're both wearing body armor. Not entirely meaning to, as his hand flails across the pill section of the menu, his lips connect with hers.

The struggle changes. He releases her wrist in favor of clutching her waist. Her hand grips his hair as her neck arches to push their mouths together. Trembling with suppressed fury and longing, Fenris kisses her hard, his tongue demanding against hers as his bitten lip screams in agony. A hard, hungry kiss that lasts for several silent seconds before someone whistles and another catcalls and they break apart, still hanging onto one another's faces and hair and staring at each other with bright eyes and panting breath. Her mouth is red from his bleeding lip.

His chest throbs so hard he wonders if he's going to have a heart attack. "Come on," he growls, releasing her and taking a step back.

She yanks the ID tag from inside of her shirt and waves it over the touchscreen counter after a moment, watching him with hooded eyes. They walk out of the bar stiffly, their boots clumping along the scuffed metal tiles of Lowtown, neither talking nor touching as they make their way through the crowded corridors, past cargo bays and hangars and an array of crappy shops. All the way to the command decks of Hightown above the civilian residents of the station, where only wealthy or military personnel are allowed access to whole cells instead of the stacked bunks, even suites in some cases.

They stop in front of Hawke's cell and she hesitates with her hand over the entry keypad. Her eyes dart away from his and he realizes from the huff of air before she speaks that she's been trying to say this the whole walk. "You coming inside?"

Fenris smirks at the double-entendre, knowing she didn't mean it like that but amused anyway. He gives her a little push against the door and kisses her again. Not another wild kiss like the Hanged Man. Just short, sweet brushes of lips and tongue. His hand moves out of her hair so his palm presses against her cheek. "Not tonight," he answers, his thumb rubbing a circle over her bloodstained lips. "But after I kill Denarius, I'm gonna fuck your brains out."

He gives her a little shove as he steps back, as if to ensure she won't follow him. But she just stands there staring at him as he backs away and then turns to hurry back to his cell alone.

* * *

><p>So next I'm going either Wild West or Victorian Vampires. Votes?<p> 


	2. Wolf Age

A/N: So long story short, I finished this one first. And I just can't really do Fenris as a vampire. I know the armor and broodiness are totally fitting with the teen-vamp stereotype propagated by Twilight and such, but I like to think Fenris is just a bit more manly. That's why I like him as LI better than Anders (NO ONE moves in together the first time they hook up!). But I digress...

**Warnings: **violence, Leto appearance (dark hair, no tattoos)

* * *

><p>Hawke hears the faint shift of a footstep behind her in the shadows and lowers her head a trifle to conceal her smirk. She feigns nervousness, glancing over her shoulder and hurrying her steps, gripping her umbrella close to her stomach. The gesture gives her time to check the knives hidden in her bodice and she pauses at the intersection between street and alleyway as if lost. A perfect mimicry of vulnerability, the ultimate lure for the thugs and filth that wander the dark streets of Kirkwall.<p>

She turns into the alleyway, knowing that it branches twenty paces onward and that one branch leads to a darkened dead end. Her friends wait at that dead end: Aveline, the Chief of the Yard, with the saber and nightstick that serve more than a decorative purpose; Varric, the well-connected merchant prince dwarf with his dueling pistols and dapper coattails; Merrill, the elfin-looking sorceress with a grimoire of deadly spells and a belt full of casting materials. Their group can defeat dozens in short measure, and Hawke has never failed in her mission as bait for the monsters prowling the streets.

A low growl sounds in the shadows to her left just as she prepares to turn right.

It is not a human sound. Hawke freezes in place, turning her head slowly to look in the direction of the growl. Green eyes flash at her from the shadows and she takes a step back.

"Hello?" she whispers, backing into the right branch, toward her friends. A hundred and six paces to where they wait, she thinks, edging along the wall. Her heart pounds and the green eyes disappear in the dark. She lifts a hand to her chest, her leather-gloved fingers spread across the rapid flutter as if to slow it. She takes a deep breath in an effort to compose herself, not sure why she should be so perturbed by that brief glimpse of eyes.

Something barrels into her, stealing what breath she has. Her back slams into the wall. Her umbrella clatters to the ground. Strong claws (claws?) grip her arms and green eyes engulf her line of sight. Hawke blinks and can see the face of a man, the man who is holding her with clawed hands. Pitch black hair hangs over his eyes and pointed ears and a wolfish smirk covers full lips. He is very handsome, she realizes, and promptly despises herself for thinking such of a mugger or rapist. His lean frame holds surprising strength, and she finds herself unable to struggle free.

The man leans forward and his nose brushes along the side of her neck. Hawke shivers in spite of herself, grateful that her jacket's collar comes up so high. He clearly means to rape her and she will not enjoy that. But the man pulls back, staring at her with a perplexed look, and releases her as he steps away.

"You are not one of them," he states, brows rising as he stares at her.

In an effort to calm herself she smooths her skirt and jacket, checking those blades again. "I do not know who you thought I was, but I assure you that I am no gang member or prostitute," she sniffs, injecting a note of offense that is not entirely pretended.

He snorts as if this is amusing, but does not smile. "Clearly not," he says. "No prostitute is so well-armed." His green eyes flick significantly down the length of her body and she feels the stare as tangible heat through her clothing. He bends to pick up her umbrella and cocks his head at the weight before passing it back to her. Then he pauses. "But you are not a Hunter, either."

Hawke draws in a breath at his statement. "Hunters are after you?" she asks him, her face going rigid with the cold fury in her blood. She grips the umbrella with white knuckles and takes it from him. The Hunters, who operated out of the hostile nation of Tevinter to the north, were known for gathering up the poor as slaves. More than that, they were known for abducting any supernatural creature they encountered, be it a witch or a werewolf. To be taken to Tevinter as a slave or experiment would be far worse than any fate the witch-hunting Templars of the Inquisition could devise.

"My name is Fenris," he says. "I'm an escaped slave."

Her gaze moves to take in his features: luminescent green eyes, pointed ears, the unnatural strength of his body and the clawed hands, which she realizes now are merely specially-made gloves. "But you're no ordinary slave," she says, thinking about that growl. She realizes she's staring at him just as he looked over her and flushes at his smirk.

Fenris shakes his head. Before he can say anything, there's a shout down the alleyway. Both of their heads turn at the same time in the direction of the noise. "Hunters," he growls, and it sounds all too much like that feral sound she heard before he accosted her. She needs no further encouragement. Pulling her skirt up around her knees, she sprints down the alley in the direction of the fight. To her surprise, Fenris also runs in that direction, quickly outstripping her speed. Hawke is fast, but he is faster.

The clamor comes from a group of Hunters that have emerged from some hovel at the end of the alley, apparently lying in wait for Fenris. So many Hunters for one man means he is no ordinary man. Hawke springs to action at once, her left thumb pressing the catch on her umbrella to release the blade at the end as a dagger slides from a sheath in her sleeve to land in her right hand. Her dark cloak and skirts flare as she moves to slash at the men around her, blending with the shadows to obscure her and create illusions of her form that make her that much harder to hit, or even to see. Varric, too, has melted into the shadows but the crack of his pistols gives his location away. Hawke is certain he's moving from time to time, however, as the angle of shots changes. Aveline has drawn the majority of the attackers' attention, but she fends it off with ease, her nightstick serving as a barrier to the strikes of knives and blades and shoving the weapons back as her saber slashes at them. Merrill's chanting makes the Hunter's blood gush faster, or makes them stagger slowly through their strikes, or burns them with some dark energy.

As he literally leaps into the fray, Fenris changes into a massive white wolf with glowing silver-blue patterns woven into swirls across his fur. With a snarl, he tears through Hunters with vicious teeth and claws, slamming them to the ground in twos and threes and mauling them. Under their combined onslaught, the Hunters fall dead within minutes. The wolf pads back toward the pile of clothes left behind by the transformation and shifts back into a man. Fenris crouches beside his clothes and puts them on with deft speed, keeping himself concealed as if he's done this many times.

"You're a werewolf," Hawke says, staring at him. Her friends glance between her and Fenris and she ignores them for the moment, awaiting his answer.

He shrugs uncomfortably. "That I am," he says. Green eyes glitter intently and he takes a step closer to her. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Varric's thumb flick to cock his favored pistol, Bianca. "You fight very well. I do not think I could have faced all of those Hunters on my own. Thank you."

"Won't there be more?" she asks.

Fenris nods. "Yes. I have eluded them for three years now and they just send greater numbers," he answers. He pauses and stares at her a long moment. "There is a way to stop them, however, and to break my curse." When she raises her brows he licks his lips and his feral smile reveals that there is still some blood on his teeth. "I have to kill my maker."

She does not hesitate to say, "If there's anything I can do to help, let me know."

* * *

><p>Up next: Wild West (cowboy Fenris!) then we're going to do Superhero Age :D<p> 


	3. Western Age

The Wild West has arrived! God, it made me want to simultaneously re-read _Lonesome Dove_ and re-watch _Firefly_.

A/N: Yes, the Tevinters in this are a brutal Native American tribe (like the Comanches or the Crow). To anyone who's read anything by Larry McMurtry, the incredibly graphic torture that you see in _Comanche Moon_ and _Dead Man's Walk_ are the kinds of things I drew on when making the decision to have the Tevinters be Native American. I guess I should also mention that in the original draft, the Dalish were also Native Americans, but of a significantly less warlike variety (like many of the Pueblo societies in the southwest) and that I had to cut it to keep within my 1500-2000 word limit.

**Warnings: **minor language, fluff, dialect

* * *

><p>Fenris leans against the fence of the corral at the Amell Ranch, pushing his hat back just enough to watch Hawke ride without the brim getting in the way. In a township such as Kirkwall, the best riders and the finest shots found themselves called on as a sort of local militia whenever threats arise, which they frequently do. These days, since Hawke made it back off that Deep Roads expedition far west, it seems as if folks call on her and her posse more often than not.<p>

"You going round the Hanged Man tonight?" she asks, pulling the reins back with a sharp tug so the horse skids to a halt beside him on the other side of the fence. A cloud of dust encompasses them.

He smirks at her and tips his hat. "You going?" he responds, watching her quick, deft hands tie the reins off on the pommel of the saddle.

She hops off the horse's back and lands on the fence, her face close to his and her hat tipped back on her skull so she looks like a child. "Maybe for a while. Gotta meeting with Mayor Dumar in the morning," she makes a face and he almost laughs. "If it ain't one thing, it's another." She sighs and pulls off her hat to wipe at her forehead with the back of a sleeve.

"Ain't heard you complain about him sending you to handle them Qunari as settled down at the lake," he answers, cocking a brow. Part of him wants to hop the fence in one agile vault and take her for a different sort of ride. That part's always there and he does his best to ignore it.

Hawke laughs. "Guess I oughta complain more about the smart-mouthed elf, then, huh?" she grins, slinging her legs over the fence. Fenris instinctively catches her with his hands around her waist and lowers her to the ground as if she's one of them dainty city ladies. Hawke lifts a brow but keeps her mouth shut about his odd behavior. One of many reasons he sticks with her. "You talked to Varric lately?"

"Sort of the idea behind going to the saloon, ain't it?" he shrugs, opening the gate for her. "You gonna wash up before?"

"Naw," she says, waving a hand. She walks up to the horse and says, "Come on, Bianca. Varric will just about level the town if you ain't run tonight." Bianca snorts and lips Hawke's outstretched palm.

"You gonna leave me standing here?" Fenris asks, amused.

"Hell, no," she answers, mounting with graceful ease. She holds a hand out to him and he hops up behind her. "Bianca can handle the both of us. Tire her out and get her a good night's sleep."

Fenris tightens his hands around her waist. Three years ago, when they first met, he'd been so badly beaten around by the Tevinter Indian tribe he couldn't stand the thought of touching another person, even through clothes. To him, this closeness is a triumph. But still he keeps his thick leather gloves on to insulate his hands, and he never rolls up his sleeves to reveal the network of tattoos the shaman Denarius carved in his skin.

Few people ride as well as Hawke. She hardly touches the reins, shifting her weight and using her thighs to steer the horse instead of tearing up their soft mouths with the bit. Bianca is an exceptional breed, sensitive to those gentle commands. He leans against her back as she crouches low over Bianca's neck, able to smell her wildflower-scented hair over their sweat and the horse and the leather. Wind whips past them as they shoot from the paddock at full speed and the drumming of hooves fades under that whistle of air. The feel of her body pressed close and the movement of the horse and the scent of earth and grass all around both relax him and draw a familiar tension to his body. He can't hide his reaction leaning against her like this.

Bianca slows to a walk and then stops at the crest of a hill overlooking the town. The sun hangs low on the western edge of the horizon, brilliant red streaks lancing across the sky. Fenris takes another breath, half-drunk with her scent, and lets his chin rest on her shoulder as he looks at the scene before them. His arms remain drawn around her waist.

"Most folks living there might be a pain," Hawke murmurs, "But from up here, Kirkwall don't look half bad."

He nods and his cheek brushes against hers, knocking both their hats askew. "Aw, hell," he mutters, more because he has to let go of her to catch his hat before it can fall. His white hair, shorn at all angles, sticks to his scalp from sweat and rises into wild tufts without the hat. Fenris feels her shift a bit in the saddle and tries not to flush when she looks at him.

"Not that I'm one to tell a man he don't need a hat," she says, a faint grin playing over her lips, "But you're a damn fine-looking man, Fenris. Can't see it as easy when your face is all hidden."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in and then Fenris blinks. "Huh," he grunts. He sees a flicker in her eyes, almost shaded out by the brim of her hat, and reaches out to pull it aside. Like his hair, hers sticks up at strange angles, dark strands matted with sweat. His other hand smooths her hair out and he wishes for the first time in his recollection that he wasn't wearing gloves. "You're a damn fine-looking woman, Hawke. Even if you ain't inclined to dress like one."

She bristles a bit at this and swipes for her hat, but he holds it out of reach. Her lunge makes Bianca whinny and pace in an irritated circle, confused at the weight shift. At last, laughing, Hawke gives up. "Fine, then," she grins, "You keep my damn hat. I'll just get me a new one."

Fenris lowers the hats, settling one against each knee. Hawke stares at him over her shoulder, humor dissipating as sunset quietude takes its place. "I ain't a bold man, Hawke," he begins, dropping his eyes away from hers. He bites back a curse unfit for ladies' ears, even hers. "But I should like, one day, to-"

Hawke interrupts by closing what space is between them. Her lips touch his and his arms slide back around her waist, the hats crossing over her body. He arches his neck forward and she shifts her shoulders back into his hold. It's an awkward angle, to be sure, but her mouth tastes sweet and dusty at the same time and her chapped lips shift under his, opening at the slightest encouragement. He kisses her a good long time, twisted as their position might be, his tongue testing the warmth and texture of her mouth in slow, languid sweeps.

Bianca's whinny reminds them that dark is falling and footing will be treacherous in the dying light. Hawke's cheeks have a pleasant flush when he replaces her hat and her crooked grin is a bit swollen from his kiss. As they ride back to the ranch, Fenris feels as if they are moving lighter and faster than they did on the way out.


	4. Superhero Age

Thank you for all the reviews! I love you guys... anyone who has a genre they'd like to see can PM me. I'm thinking Mission Impossible Spies, Post-Apocalypse, Steampunk, Stone Age, possibly some kind of _Clerks_ type of thing, and perhaps a _Pride & Prejudice_ thing (Fenris as Mr. Darcy? Hell yes!).

A/N: The speed of sound is 768 mph. After that, you make a sonic boom when you go supersonic (faster than the speed of sound, also known as breaking the sound barrier).

**Warnings:** Isabela voyeurism, implied sex without fun graphic details

* * *

><p>Hawke glances at her assembled teammates and tries not to sigh. "Things are bad," she says, pacing away from the group at the table. She comes up short a step away from Fenris, who leans against the wall with his arms folded. Their eyes meet and she looks back toward the group before she can drown in his stare. "Meredith and Orsino are ready to kill each other any day now."<p>

Aveline drums her fingers on the table's surface, leaving tiny pockmarked dents where her fingers connect with the wood. "They'd take half of Kirkwall out if they did," she grumbles. Her police uniform looks baggier than usual and Hawke suspects that she's lost weight from all of the stress.

Varric scowls at the tabletop and a second later Aveline's hand halts its motion. He turns his warm amber eyes toward her and says, "I gave Hawke that table." For a moment the police chief's hand struggles against the telekinetic force holding it in place, and then Aveline curls her hand in a ball and draws it to her side with a sigh. Satisfied, the dwarf turns his attention back to Hawke. "We could just take them out before they get to that point," he suggests, "Although an epic battle would make a _great_ YouTube video."

"Where's Isabela?" asks Merrill, cocking her head to one side. Unlike Aveline, her school uniform is pristine, if a bit shabby. "I don't sense her anywhere."

"I'm right here," says a disembodied voice, and then Isabela appears in her chair, smirking. "I got here a bit early," she adds, giving a significant wink to Hawke and Fenris. "Invisibility has its perks."

"Perv," mutters Hawke, blushing. She scowls at the thief, who just shrugs. "Anyway," she says, wrestling their meeting back on topic, "It won't do to kill off both Meredith and Orsino because of what they _might_ do."

"Meredith's done plenty already," growls Anders, silent until this point. He looks more exhausted than usual, and Hawke knows it's because the young doctor has taken on more and more shifts, using his healing ability to save patients who would otherwise die. If Aveline's uniform looks a bit baggy, Anders is absolutely swimming in his pale blue scrubs. "The way she tries to control the superhumans is dangerous and cruel and unfair," he adds, as if none of them have heard his rant before.

"Shut _up_," Fenris mutters in the corner. Hawke hears the creak of his leather jacket as he refolds his arms. "We can't charge into the middle of this yelling battle cries and demanding justice. This isn't some medieval fantasy game."

"She also has my sister at the Gallows," Hawke adds in a quiet voice. Poor Bethany, with her explosive pyrokinetic power, never stood a chance at hiding her abilities. She crosses her arms in imitation of her boyfriend's pose. "It's a risk I'm not willing to take. For now, all we can do is try and talk some sense into them."

"Is that even possible?" Varric asks, messing with the large bling-like coin in his chest hair. "If they were rational people, we wouldn't have this problem."

Hawke sighs. He's right, of course. "We have to try," she says, effectively ending the meeting. She feels jittery, in need of a run. As the others file out she snaps a hand out, so fast the limb blurs even to her sight, and catches the front of Fenris' tee-shirt. "Tell me I'm not an idiot," she says, staring at him.

Fenris smirks. "You're just surrounded by idiot," he promises, glancing over to make sure Isabela has left, still visible, before he kisses her. He pulls back a bit and eyes her. "You're buzzing."

"I know," she sighs again and releases the front of his shirt. "I need a run. Back in five?"

He shrugs. "It's not like I could catch you anyway," he comments, a dry note to his deep voice. His hand steals out to squeeze hers. "Go on, woman. Sprint around the city. I'm going to try and fix the clog in the garbage disposal." Fenris wrinkles his nose. "Some days I really hate my power."

She laughs and leans forward to kiss him once more. "I'll see you in the shower," she promises, and then she turns and sprints out the door.

Kirkwall winds in hills from the gated communities at the top of the hill to the slums near the water. It doesn't make sense, real-estate wise, but apparently the city was built in the Middle Ages and the wealthy wanted the most defensible position. Unsurprisingly, the mesh of gated communities and country clubs is named Hightown. Hawke darts through the streets fast enough that no one notes more than a gust of wind as she passes by. Though she runs through each street it takes less than a minute for her to shoot through Hightown, and then she moves down the hill, keeping her speed at only seven hundred and fifty miles an hour to avoid creating a sonic boom in her wake.

Lowtown isn't half bad, stretching to support the middle class, but the houses need upkeep in the current economic crisis and few can afford the repairs. Many windows have cracks or roofs have shingles missing, and the paint on most of the closely-placed apartments and houses is faded and chipped. It's more crowded, and she has to dodge more people down here, but it takes two minutes of time before she's down at the waterfront. A burst of speed sends her shooting over the water, her feet kicking up a mist, and she arcs around to sprint back up. Best not to go to Darktown, the low-income area of ghettos named by frightened, fat nobles in a fit of racism. Hawke resents the place, not just for the abhorrent lack of police or the treatment of its residents. People there aren't much kinder than the bastards who named that part of town, but their hard lives have given them a dangerous edge.

Just as she promised Fenris, she's back home in five minutes. She can hear him swearing under his breath at the sink as she walks into the kitchen and grins, crossing her arms.

"Can't put it back together?" she asks.

There's a thump and a series of more colorful, vindictive swearwords. "Ow," he growls, emerging from the space under the sink with a hand pressed to his forehead. "Do we really need a garbage disposal? I'd rather just go to the shower now."

Laughing, Hawke crouches in front of him and kisses him. He's smart enough to keep his smelly hands out to the sides. "Okay," she says, "But you're calling the repairman when we're done." He smirks and stands up, closing his arms around her waist and leaving smelly streaks on her jeans. She yelps and starts laughing again when he scoops her up in his arms and marches her upstairs toward the shower.


	5. Spy Age

Thank you for all of the reviews. I love some of these suggestions. In the words of the infamous (and ever sexy) Billy Idol, "More, more, more!" But much love, internets, and a round of dwarven ale on the house.

"Shepherding Wolves" done in modern-day corporate mercenary terms. Special ass-kicking appearances for Varric, Aveline, and Merrill.

**warnings:** fun with weapons, language, violence in spades, and I noticed in rereading that the word 'cocks' appears a lot, though never in a dirty way.

* * *

><p>Fenris stands with his back to the wall and watches as Hawke peers around the corner. She turns back to face him, cocking her assault weapon, and signs that there are six visible on each side and a sniper hidden up top.<p>

Both of their earpieces crackle for a second, then Varric's voice hisses, "_I'm in position._"

Hawke presses her face against her shoulder so her mouth is near the microphone on her collar. "Enemy sniper?"

"_Down._"

She nods and taps her thumb against the mike. Morse code for 'now.' Thumbing the cap off a smoke bomb, she rolls it in underhanded, so that it rolls nice and slow into the middle of the floor. Her eyes shift to Fenris and he nods. They move around the wall in tandem, raising their AKs to either side and tearing through enemies. Shell casings litter the floor behind them with each step they take. The men are surprised and half of them are dead before they know what hit them. Three manage to take cover and one jerks as blood sprays out of the side of his head. Varric. One guy runs for the door and Fenris cold-cocks him with the butt of his gun. In a seamless motion he pulls a Magnum sidearm and pops the downed man between the eyes.

He and Hawke are forced to take cover as the guys who ducked regroup and start shooting at them. She rolls across the floor and fires when one pops up, her spray of bullets shearing his head from his shoulders. There's that high-pitched hiss of another of Bianca's bullets and another one drops. Fenris sees the last one trying to creep around to get a shot at Hawke and he pulls his trigger, shoulder bracing the chattering kickback of his weapon.

"_Got it_," crackles a new voice on their frequency. He can hear the smirk in Isabela's voice. "_What's the big deal with this Sarebaas microchip?_" A pause. "_Am I saying it right? Sounds like Sorry, Boss._"

"Move out, Rivaini," Hawke orders tersely. She moves through the bodies, checking to make sure all are dead. He moves a step behind her, guarding her back. "Rendevous in twenty-five." She lifts her gun to the surveillance camera and shoots it out in a shower of sparks. Then she jerks her head toward the exit and they jog out of the building and into the waiting van. Anders is in the back with medical supplies and Merrill sits next to him monitoring frequencies and likely hacking into classified government files on the side. Aveline sits in the driver's seat, green eyes darting to them as they climb in and her foot hits the accelerator a second later.

When they get to the drop, though, it's not the contact. It's a bunch of pissed-looking Qunari soldiers. Aveline brakes, skidding around so the passenger side faces the ambush. The group exchanges glances as the soldiers fan out around the van.

"Shit," Hawke says in a flat voice. "That Petrice bitch-"

"She set us up," he finishes. Their eyes meet and he reaches out for a split second to touch her gloved fingertips with his.

In the last few months working with her he can't help feeling the undeniable connection with her, can't help relishing the fact that she listens to him when he drinks too much and growls about the years he was forced to work for the Tevinter military, about being drafted into the cruel experimentations of their Covert Ops program. Most of all he feels a surge of gratitude that she never judges him or makes any official report about his desertion. He'd spend years in a cell, being questioned by Kirkwall intelligence. Instead she's banded the rest of their squad together to help him keep under the radar.

Fenris shifts forward in his crouch by the door, his face leaning toward hers, but she stops him with a palm against his Kevlar vest. Blue eyes flash under her stylishly mussed bangs. "Don't kiss me now," she says.

"I apologize?" he asks, hands freezing in the process of loading his gun. Somewhere behind him he hears a hand slap a forehead. Not certain whether to be offended at her rejection or concerned with the seconds this is wasting, he draws back. But her fingers shift to grip the front of his vest, pulling his face closer.

"Kiss me once we've lived through this," Hawke smirks.

He stares in her eyes for a second, tempted to push the dark hair out of the way. His fingers stray up toward her forehead.

And the Qunari open fire on the van, forcing them to duck as Aveline slams the van into reverse and the thud of bodies bouncing off the rear doors ruins the moment. When she shifts gears, Merrill drops a car battery through the window, attached to a spool of wire that she unwinds as the van moves forward through more soldiers.

Hawke grins at him and cocks her rifle. Then she opens the sliding door and starts shooting. When the van halts for a second, the two of them roll out. Aveline's angled the van to shield them. Merrill hops out with a rather wicked glint in her eye and Fenris only has time to spare a single uneasy glance for the crazy hacker girl and her backpack before she's rigging up the wire to what looks like another car battery and unreeling another spool. She dodges and ducks as Hawke and Fenris start firing, sprinting around the clearing and dropping a third battery.

The Qunari have split into two small groups. There are a lot of dead or battered bodies on the ground for the two of them to pick through. But they've got cover. He glimpses Merrill pulling some large silver thing from her backpack and attaching it to the car battery and wire circle. Hawke presses a hand to his chest to prevent him from stepping over the wire. Fenris cocks his head at her as they creep through the trees.

"We need to get away from the wires," she murmurs. "Draw fire away from Merrill without drawing them out of their cover."

They don't actually have to do anything, though, because just as Aveline and the van roar off past Merrill, she closes the circuit. And the effect is like a lightning storm, attracted to the soldiers' weapons. For a few seconds they hear a lot of screaming, then Merrill turns some knob with her head cocked and the voltage apparently increases. He feels the hair standing up on his arms and backs away into the trees a bit. Fenris has had more than enough mad scientists for a lifetime. But at least this girl ended the fight for them. Now they can confront the Petrice bitch.

A tap on his shoulder snaps him to the present. Hawke stands next to him, blue eyes fixed on him expectantly. "We lived through it," she says. That smirk he saw in the van plays around her mouth.

Fenris doesn't need any further hint or permission to grab her around her bulletproof waist and kiss her faintly metallic-flavored lips. Her slightly jagged teeth have bitten the pins off far too many grenades to count as they nibble his lip and his warm tongue has spent more time spitting vitriol than exploring a woman's mouth, but it's the best kiss he's ever had. He hopes there will be more before she and Varric run off on their crazy Operation Deep Roads.


	6. Zombie Age

A/N: So the Darkspawn are like zombies, and the Blight destroyed the world. Kind of a depressing one. Sorry for that.

Thanks once more reviewers. I do mean to get to some Indiana Jones, some Stone Age, some That 70's Age (or Stoned Age, ha) and of course, there will be still more supernatural, contemporary (Leverage!), historical (P&P), futuristic and suchforth. And don't think that that's the last you'll be seeing of Superhero Age- you haven't even gotten to see them fight yet!

**warnings:** zombies, death, depressingness, sexiness

* * *

><p>Hawke walks through the desert wasteland, messy hair fluttering in the post-nuclear breeze. She stares at the rubble and the ashes, nothing but ashes, and glances behind her at Fenris. He has a shotgun in his hands, green eyes scanning the area for potential threats. No one expected the Blight. No one knew what to do. There were stories, of course, but they amounted to nothing in the end. Just scattered survivors wandering the continent of Thedas and hiding from the Darkspawn. And of course there were the various factions, from the implacable Qunari to the bloodthirsty Magisters to the bitterly addicted Templars.<p>

"We should move out," he says, deep voice rumbling to break the graveyard silence. Both of their eyes dart to one another and then around the area to see if they've alerted anyone to their presence.

She hangs her head for a moment. "You're right," she murmurs. She bends down and scoops a handful of ash along with a metallic glint, stuffing it into her pocket. Hawke can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't make any move to explain, instead lifting her shotgun into her arms. Not that either of them uses the shotguns often. Better to conserve ammunition. As he takes point and leads her out of the rubble, her eyes fall to the massive sword on his back.

They don't talk as they walk through the desert, out of the nuked remnants of the Chantry. Anders' little politically-charged massacre, the perfect distraction for the powers that be. Everyone was too concerned with his revolution to recognize the Blight for the threat it was. Not they're not around to complain anymore, Anders included. Hawke feels only a rush of relief that he got to die fighting Darkspawn, doing what he was supposed to be doing when he decided to go renegade and start bombing innocent people. If he'd remained with that dying order, maybe they would have been able to stop the Blight before it overran the world. But this is no place for what-ifs.

"You're thinking about him again," Fenris grumbles. He glances over his shoulder, narrow green eyes meeting hers. "Stop blaming yourself."

"He was my friend," she answers, her footsteps growing heavier. "I knew he was a trainwreck and I didn't realize how bad things had gotten. I could have done something." She sighs. All of her protests are pointless. How long does she have until one or both of them die, eaten by Darkspawn or infected by the Blight?

"He was a terrorist," growls Fenris. "He deserved to die the way he did." She can see his jaw tense and hear the tightness of his voice. They both stood together on that cliff, watched him get torn limb from limb by the Darkspawn. They didn't even wait for him to die before they started eating him. Could anyone deserve to die like that, even Anders? The familiar tight guilt fills her chest again.

They reach the safety of the caves they've been staying in for a few days and conduct a sweep of the cavern to make sure no intruders have appeared in their absence. "It was a horrible way to die," she calls from her side. She peers into the last corner and adds, "Clear."

"And thanks to him, millions of people have died the exact same way," Fenris reasons. "He deserves to experience the same death he inflicted upon so many others." She hears him lower his shotgun and call, "Clear."

Fenris stands in the middle of the cave pulling supplies out of his pack. For a moment his pale hair hangs over his eyes, obscuring them from her, and then he looks up as she starts unpacking hers. She doesn't speak, doesn't bother arguing the point because she knows, deep down, that he's right. Hawke just sighs and runs a hand back through her hair, trying not to shuffle through the task of pulling out pots and pans and changing into clean clothes. His eyes seem to bore holes in her back and finally she turns to look at him over her shoulder, holding a clean shirt in her hands.

"What is it?" she asks him, exasperated. She's in no mood to hear a lengthier rant about why Anders deserved to die horribly. Bad enough she has to live with the guilt of knowing her friend played a key role in causing all of this.

He growls, low in his throat, and it sets her pulse racing even though she wishes it didn't. His hands are cold as they wind around her waist, his fingers steely when he grips her wrist and murmurs, "Keep the shirt off." With his chest against her back and his mouth against her ear, she has no choice but to shiver and obey. Her head drops back against his shoulder as his mouth traces down her neck and then he leans back up just enough to kiss her. The sort of long, slow kiss that sets her skin on fire in spite of the chill outside.

"Don't think I'm not still mad at you," she grumbles, but her protests sound weak to her own ears as she clasps her fingers in his hair and turns to face him. He nods and kisses her again, holding her close against him. She can feel his heart pounding, can feel hers beating the same rhythm, and she revels in the taste of his chapped lips.

A howl echoes through the valley below their cave. They pull apart instantly. It takes seconds to pack their gear together, to pull their clothes on and gather their weapons. A glance outside confirms the sound they heard and she sees a group of twelve Darkspawn charging up the hill toward them. "Shit," they say at the same time. They get two shots off each before the Darkspawn are on them. They make each shot count, through the head, and Fenris manages to line one of his up in such a way that it shoots through two of the monsters. Hawke somersaults over the beasts, drawing her daggers in midair. She hears the swish-thunk-gurgle of Fenris cleaving through meat and bone and comes down with her knives pinpoint-aimed to sever brainstems. Two Darkspawn fall and she edges around their backs, making the same surgical strikes and killing with ruthless fury.

When the last of the Darkspawn falls, they kick the bodies off the cliffside to splatter on the rocks below. Hawke glances sidelong at Fenris and tries not to sigh as the last mutilated monster drops out of sight. "How long until you think more of them come?" she asks.

He responds by lunging forward and kissing her, dragging her back into the cave. Fenris pulls back just enough to say against her mouth, "Long enough."


	7. Meme Age

A/N: I know it's from the regular DA Universe, but I thought it would be a good pick-me-up after the zombies. And since it's a one-shot, I'm flinging it in the pile.

Kmeme fill that got fluffy. Basically, Hawke likes one of the guys and goes to Bela for advice. Bonus if the advice relates to the LI and extra bonus if the LI overhears their conversation.

**Warnings:** fluff, Isabela, booze

* * *

><p>"It's not as if you're some blushing virgin," Isabela says, perhaps a trifle too loudly, her voice carrying through the Hanged Man with the aid of copious amounts of whiskey.<p>

Hawke winces and tries to cover it with her own glass, taking a longer gulp than she meant to and choking a bit. "Shout a bit louder, why don't you?" she mutters, her voice muffled by the cup. She scowls at the tabletop as she lowers her glass and wonders, not for the first time this evening, if seeking the pirate's help was a good idea after all.

Isabela almost lunges across the table in an effort to lean closer. Cunning amber eyes pin Hawke to her seat. "You have been with a man, haven't you?" she asks, her voice lowering to a purr. It's the closest thing she has to a proper whisper.

"Once," Hawke lies, unable to meet the other woman's gaze, "In Lothering."

Of course the Rivaini pirate sees right through her and gasps theatrically. "You haven't!" she exclaims, and then claps a hand over her mouth to whisper, still too loudly, "You _haven't_?"

"Maker, I hate you," Hawke grumbles, lifting her scowl to Isabela's face. "Can't you give me any worthwhile advice, aside from 'strip down and wait for him to come home?'" She feels the corners of her mouth turning down and softening into a pout. "He'd rip my heart out. And I don't mean it the way poets and weeping maids say it, either."

With a sigh, Isabela flings her hands in the air. "Look, Hawke, he's always telling people to keep their distance," she says. "I really don't know what else to do. At least you'll know if he wants you."

Hawke pinches the bridge of her nose and the waitress sets another round of whiskey in front of them. "Fenris doesn't like to be touched. Haven't you noticed by now?" she says, exasperation seeping into her tone. "He'd be furious if I was waiting naked in his mansion. Not to mention that it's dirty."

The pirate shoves a few pieces of hair over her shoulders to reveal her earrings to better advantage. "Hawke," she says, her thumbs making nervous patterns on the surface of her new glass, "I'm no good at romance. I know lust well enough, and I can tell you from the way he looks at you that there's no shortage of lust. And confusion, like he doesn't really know what to make of it. Does that help at all?"

"No," Hawke says, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. "Now I know he'll never approach me."

Isabela makes a motion like she's trying to choke something invisible between them on the table. "That's exactly my point!" she yells. Her hands shift from strangulation pose and one palm slaps on the table before she grabs her glass and empties it in one pull.

"I really don't understand," Hawke eyes her friend, cupping her whiskey in both hands without taking a sip. She knows at this point she's just being obstinate, but damn it, why can't her friend help her with this?

"You have to approach him. Set him at ease, get to know him, you know. All those things you're supposed to do when you fancy courting a lad properly," the pirate states, rolling her eyes to voice her opinion on such foolishness. "With Fenris, since he hates when you touch his skin, why not see about touching him through all that armor? Don't pretend that part of the attraction isn't the whole dark, brooding armor."

Hawke sighs. That's not awful advice, but it is kind of disappointing. "I'd be lucky if he let me hold his hand," she says wistfully, which is true as far as she knows.

Isabela smirks at her. "You're a virgin, Hawke. It's not as if you're going to be sleeping with him by the time the two of you leave the Deep Roads," she answers. Her eyes get a faraway look combined with a sultry glimmer that makes Hawke want to sink through the floor. "It'll probably take the two of you three years to get it together anyway. But when you do, all that hard work and sexual tension will be well worth it." She says the last far too loud, glancing past her, and Hawke winces yet again.

"Maker, Isabela, why are you so bloody loud?" she grumbles at the pirate, swigging her whiskey and leaving some coin for the waitress. "I'm leaving."

Hawke stomps from the bar with a scowl, deep in thought.

* * *

><p>Fenris sits back in the shadows of his corner when the pirate's eyes fall on him. He did not mean to overhear the women conversing, but he couldn't help attuning to Hawke. She is the only person he's met in Kirkwall that he can bring himself to trust even a bit, and he cannot deny that her intriguing appearance has crept into his thoughts all too often. Though he does not remember experiencing it for himself, he knows well enough what desire is.<p>

He had hoped himself better than the Magisters, but to look at Hawke he knows what it must be to fall prey to a demon. To want something beyond his reach.

It's Hawke's last words that catch him. The idea of holding hands is intriguing; he's seen the affectionate gesture many a time and still it eludes him. It makes no sense, this linkage of limbs, yet the idea of touching her hand, of feeling her fingers wrap around his makes his chest feel strangely light and full of air.

But even more than the thought of holding her hand, it's the tone that she says it in, the same tone she uses when speaking of her dead brother or her home in Lothering. It is how she speaks about things that she longs for but cannot have.

Fenris is so enthralled that he leans forward at his table and the pirate's lewd comment about the Deep Roads fades away as she looks directly at him. "It'll probably take the two of you three years to get it together anyway. But when you do, all that hard work and sexual tension will be well worth it," she crows, her voice meant to carry through the tavern.

When Hawke leaves he follows after her, not entirely sure what he means to say or do. Only that he must escape the pirate woman before she can corner him and start forcing 'advice' on him.

Hawke stands outside with her head tilted back, staring at the moon for a second. She mutters a curse and turns to shuffle toward the slums. Her shoulders slump a bit.

He catches up to her with three quick steps and she turns with a confused stare that turns to a look of mortification as she realizes that he must have heard every word. His throat feels dry as he stares at her red cheeks and pursed lips and Fenris does the single bravest thing he has ever dared: he reaches forward and takes her hand.

Both are wearing armored gloves. Their fingers cannot weave together or even grip very well, the metal clinking together awkwardly. But he still manages to grip her hand and she grips back. They walk back to her uncle's hovel in silence.


End file.
